Meet me.

I know that I’m a little late to the Ashley Madison dating site scandal but I’ve been somewhat consumed by my own dating site scandal.

I subscribed to The Perfect Partner about a year ago. It didn’t go very well, mainly because I don’t think there is a perfect partner out there, also because I kept losing my perfect password.

Anyway. After one too many shirtless pics, LookingForFun69 messages and a little sexual harrasment from NaughtyBoy, I decided it was time to unsubscribe.

You try unsubscribe from a dating site. It’s seriously near damn impossible, and I give up every single time. It goes like this.

  • Find the  teeny writing in the bottom left-hand corner that says Cancel Subscription. It will be well hidden by a young couple holding hands on the beach.
  • Click on the link  where you spend the next ten minutes looking for another link.  More happy people will appear.
  • Are you sure you want to unsubscribe?  Y/N.
  • Why do you want to unsubscribe?          None of your business.
  • Can you tell us anything else?                 No.
  • Right, soon you’ll be alone forever.          

At which point I give up and continue getting messages from men looking for adventure and anal sex.

I realise I have more chance of meeting a man in the two-minute noodle section at the grocery store than online.

Which brings me back to Ashley Madison.

There was outrage that the site encouraged adultery. But at least it was an honest cheating site with clear instructions. And there was outrage that subscribers had to pay to delete their profiles. Personally, I would pay hundreds of thousands right now to get away from the Perfect Fucking Partner.

Maybe I’m going to start my own dating site. Go ahead readers, please subscribe. It’s going to at least be honest.’


Pre and Post Orgasm.

When self-pleasure is part of your work you gotta be prepared.

Before orgasm:

Fill the fridge. And the grocery cupboards. You’re going to get very hungry so make sure you have all your favorite foods. Extra.

Have litres of bottled water. Keep this next to your bed. And in the fridge. And on the dining room table. It’s important to keep hydrated. Use it to drink, to pour over your head, to wipe the sweat off your chest…

Have clean sheets, beautiful candles, sexy underwear, the right lighting, delicious oils, the right toys and the right guy, or girl, watching.

After orgasm:-




Laze back in a bubble bath.

Smile contentedly.

Clean the toys.

Clean the keyboard.

Clean the sheets.

Have a cigarette, even if you don’t smoke.

Recommend that your friends go out and buy a Kissing Swan luxury rechargeable rabbit vibrator immediately.

Start again…

The thing about Orgasms

The thing about having an orgasm is that it is so fucking good. It starts off with a small pulsing sensation, everything tingles, your clit, oh my god your clit, you can’t breathe, your body feels like it’s going to explode, your hands reach out to hold something, his back, the sheets, your own shoulder, your body shakes, you want it to last forever, you think you’re going to collapse, you do collapse, and then – you get incredibly sleepy.

And greedy. Because once you’ve had one orgasm you want another. And another.

Orgasms are exhausting. I know because I had about ten yesterday and this morning I feel like I’ve run a marathon. But a really good marathon. I can feel every single part of my body aching, my legs, calves, my stomach, even my hands – but mostly – my inner thighs. It’s a fantastic feeling and I want more and more.

Orgasms are good for you. Sex, or masturbation, should be up there on the good health list. Eat five fruits and vegetables, drink a ton of water, and orgasm daily. Women with active sex lives, or who masturbate, always have good legs. Shapely calves. Hard, strong upper arms. Toned butts. Their skin glows and their hair shines. They walk around with mysterious smiles. They’re happy.

I’m happy.

I’m a little tired but really tempted to pick up my vibrator again this morning. It’s all in the name of research and I haven’t quite finished my reviews. I think I’m going to run a bath, add bubbles, slip off my clothes and choose a new toy.

This is going to be quite a long project.  Lucky me.

Sex Toys.

I won’t be blogging today but I will be testing out sex toys!

So bear with me

While I gasp my way through the weekend

With lotions and potions

Waterproof bullets, kissing swans

Candle wax

Massage oil

Bondage tape




The very fancy very pretty and very sexy

Fifi rabbit vibrator.

See ya next week…


Beware the man who uses Emoji.

I just got a message from a man who seems completely delicious and I can already feel the confetti being showered down upon us.

The text went like this:

‘Hey, Violet.  I’m Mark, 50, an artist.  Divorced for three years, love the Blues, and would like to meet you.’

He’s perfect and it’s not the way he looks, what he does or the music he listens to.

It’s about the way he texts. Not a single spelling error, no abbreviations, short, sharp, to the point, and hey – he got me at hey.

A good texter is a turn on.

A bad texter – the guy who uses capital letters, says ha ha, takes 45 minutes to reply with two words and uses smiley faces at the end of the two words – should be avoided.

Be scared of these guys:-

  1. So sorry Vio, I gotta cancel again, something’s come up. 🙂 🙂 🙂
  1. Yo Violet U lk kwlu hv gd i’s st u lyk 2 do?
  1. Hey babe, what are you wearing?

It’s kinda clear that number 4 doesn’t want to know what you are wearing, he wants to know what you are not wearing.  Don’t answer him unless he’s French, in which case go for it. Frenchmen can get away with anything.

And if anyone uses LOL and tons of exclamation marks, put rocks in your pockets and walk into the ocean.

Texting in the beginning should be light, fun, a little mysterious, not over the top, not needy, and actually – a phone call after a few short texts is the best thing of all.

Marc, the artist just called. He really sounds divine. He has an Irish accent.  I like the way he says my name. I have a feeling he’s going to be perfect.

I can taste the wedding cake. I’m imagining my dress.

There’s definitely confetti in my future.


Ladies who lunch – alone.

The other day I was stood up on a date. I’d met this guy at a friend’s house, we’d  connected and laughed and the following week he invited me out for lunch. I said yes.

He was bright, gorgeous and filled with potential. At the very least he could be a new friend.

We set a place and a time and I arrived at the restaurant wearing jeans and a white shirt, a splash of perfume and a touch of optimism.

He hadn’t arrived so I picked a table, sat and ordered a glass of chilled white wine. Wine to match my mood. I read the menu, read the paper, read my phone, looked around for something else to read and tried to look calm and cool.

He was late.

I’m patient with people who are late; I am often late myself.

I’m not so patient with people who are very, very late.

Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I call him? Text him? Get angry with him?

I chose to do none of that.

I folded the paper, put my phone away and instead, ordered lunch. I was starving. The menu looked fantastic and I suddenly realised that it was absolutely fine if I didn’t have a date. I was old enough and big enough to eat on my own. It isn’t something that I do often and I decided it was about time that I learned how to do it.

Eat alone, not just a snack, but a full on meal – with confidence and in public.

I told the waiter I’d been stood up and he made me feel really good by saying ‘any man who stands you up is an idiot.  I quite liked that, and thought – it’s true.

A few years ago I would’ve thought ‘Oh God what did I do wrong, why didn’t he arrive, why hasn’t he called me and it’s all my fault’ – but now I just wasn’t taking it on. This was about him being the fuckwit, not me.

I ate my meal, which tasted especially good because I had had this epiphany that I was okay, and then – oops as I was paying the bill, he arrived. I was so glad I hadn’t phoned him and been all needy. He had the time wrong.

Actually, I had the time wrong; I was an hour early.

I sat with him while he ate. I think I oozed a confidence that I’m not sure I had oozed before. I could sense that he really liked me and the vibe that I was giving out, and it was a really fun, if very late, lunch.

Over my second slice of chocolate cake he asked me out on a second date. I was the one who said ‘Sure, but let’s just be friends’. I was suddenly enjoying my new found sense of ‘Hey motherfuckers, I’m okay on my own!’.

And I am. It is such a great feeling when you realise you don’t have to take on the whole world. When you realise that other people have issues and problems and that not all the issues are your own. And that everyone makes mistakes.

Tonight I’m going out for dinner. Alone. Same restaurant, because I don’t want to be too brave too quickly, but hey – I’m dining alone. And I have this quiet sense that finally, eventually, right now, I am quite happy with my own company.


Sex in the bedroom?

I haven’t had sex in my own bed for a long time, but the other night, that changed.

I invited my friend, the one with benefits, for dinner. We’re always at his place, which is perfect, but I decided I was ready to have him over.

I was nervous. I scrubbed every surface in my house, wiped down the cupboard doors, cleaned the windows and re-arranged my underwear. I changed the linen, plumped up the cushions, lit candles and made sure no vibrators were under my pillow.

I pretended I cooked but picked up food from the local Indian take way.

Showered, perfumed, made double sure the kids had no plans to come home, and then let him in.

The house sparkled, and so did I.

He opened the wine and poured two glasses. I served my Mirchi Murgh Massala and we had a fantastic night, eventually making our way to my bedroom.

Let me quickly add that I have not had sex with anyone in my bed ever since the divorce. It was quite a big step.

I may have had sex on my dining room table, in the kitchen and in the bathroom, but that is a different story.

Anyway, it was going really well. We were both in ‘the zone’.

Until, that moment just before, you know, before he was about to go inside me, when he whispered:-

‘Violet, the condoms…’

‘Where are they?’ I whispered back.

Usually, the condoms are at his house, in the bedside table, easy to reach – ribbed or flavoured or extra thin or ultra large, a somewhat amazing variety that are always accessible.

‘It’s your house, Violet.’ He stopped whispering. ‘You should have condoms.’

He’s very difficult this lover of mine.

I jumped out of bed, told him not to go anywhere and started searching. My bedside tables, the bathroom shelves, my handbags, the kitchen, cupboards, everywhere.

Not a condom in sight.

I did however, find the credit card I lost over a year ago, my passport, my Ster Kinekor card and a bonus one thousand rand.

I was more turned on than ever.

But no condoms.

I went back to the bedroom, with my fantastic stash of goodies, but a little sheepish. I did not know how to explain this.

It was okay. He was asleep. Cosy and comfortable.

I hesitate to use the word satisfied.

I smiled, climbed in next to him and went to sleep too.

Which means I still haven’t used my own bed for sex.  But I am getting closer.